


Unpersons

by schmaslow



Category: 1984 - George Orwell, Big Time Rush (Band), Big Time Rush (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1984 Fusion, Big Brother is Watching, Dystopia, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by 1984 - George Orwell, M/M, Newspeak, Vague, alternative vocabulary, fiction-based vocabulary, passion is illegal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 02:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15596715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmaslow/pseuds/schmaslow
Summary: A head lifts from his shoulder, renewed ferocity and passion- both of which, are exactly what sentenced them to inevitable identities ofunpersons. Alloyed with restless rebellion and a taboo sentience too-too many duckspeakers lacked.





	Unpersons

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory "I wrote this so long ago," note. Cliché, "because I feel bad I haven't updated a chapter in ions on another fic," note.
> 
> This is based on the book 1984 and from around the time when I was balls-deep in it. It's littered with vocabulary from the novel, termed "newspeak," so don't complain, because Google. Gist is, 1984-verse doesn't appreciate any of your "creative" or "critical" thinking, and, thus, claimed it would help hinder independence through the minimizing of words, since it'd be "literally impossible" to disagree when there are "no words to express it." Actually an interesting little tidbit of an idea, if linguistics get your gears turnin.'

_“For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable – what then?”_  


* * *

 

It should feel like this.

It should feel  _ better _ than this.

The sweat, the uncold, the should-be-satisfied quake in his thighs and the need. God. That searing greedy ache manifested in the dig of his nails into flesh.

Damp sheets sticking to his back. The brush of hair at his naval. The drying spit at the corner of his mouth.

There, where a body presses ungiving on top of him. Dips and grooves almost carved into the softer-tone of his torso. The curling of toes-

Unthinkable Unforgivable Unacceptable  _ Unorthodox _ .

It should feel better than this.

Than this grim, surety in the pit of his stomach overriding the lingering heat of illegality.

Than having to grind out, “We’re dead.” A breath into hair that meets it with a shudder. The only reaction, otherwise.

Kendall swallows. Again, more accusing, “We’re  _ dead _ ,” because this cannot be his fault. And it’s-

True.

If anyone believed in that. If there was such a thing that existed. Than this-

No. Not even that.

Who knows what actually happened to people who committed crimes of thought.

People like them. James mouthing, “Yes,” at the crook of his neck.

It’s the best and worst thing he’s ever felt.

Maybe it’s the only thing he’s ever felt. Besides fear and the forbidden act of resentment.

Kendall asks, “Was it worth it?” Critical.

Stupidly hopeful. And everyone who’s listening knows it’s there. Tinged in the shared paint of their still-fresh delinquency.

A head lifts from his shoulder, renewed ferocity and passion- both of which, are exactly what sentenced them to inevitable identities of  _ unpersons _ . Alloyed with restless rebellion and a taboo sentience too-too many duckspeakers lacked. Just a hissed “ _ Yes _ ,” is what reminds him.

Forces him to demand, “You’d do it all over?”

Not doubting for a second there’s a plea in his eyes.

Facecrime.

Taking in matted strands he’d tugged between his fingers and a flush above cheekbones, chapped lips that part for lungs that heave or for the same reason he wants to arch up for, to taste.

To taste something more than stale Victory coffee, synthetic, oily Victory gin or the doubleplusungood sludge of pinkbrowngrey and darkened bread. More than the constant acidic tang that follows every mandatory broadcast on the telescreen, dovetails the steady drone of prolefeed.

“I don’t wanna die,” James protests, defensive, and Kendall doesn’t interrupt to mention what  _ they  _ do is worse than  _ death _ , “but if I hadn’t- if we didn’t… I think I would have.” A nod. “I don’t wanna die- but I know I want something to  _ live for _ . All of this isn’t. It’s not.”

His statement ringing an echo of the end.

The end of an entity with absolutely no provable beginning.

Somehow, it soothes and irritates the gnawing emptiness society has chosen to disregard with blind, enthusiastic acceptance.

Doublethink.

“You barely know me.”

“I know you more than anybody I’ve ever met.”

Another truth.

_ If _ , tacked on unconsciously. Another reflex.

But if the truth and the past do not exist, and, soon, neither do they?

“Then lets do it again.” Loud enough so there was no mistaking. “Again and again until they take us.”

And James vows, a cynical humor, “Until we don’t exist anymore.”

Wrong. “Until we never existed in the first place.”

Making Kendall grin into the dim lighting.

Because he knows, more than anything else:

Big Brother is watching.


End file.
